


Ulterior Motives

by aintitnifty



Series: Only Human [2]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: (But They're Getting There), (Still), Gen, Harry Sets Things On Fire, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Slash, This Is Not A Date, Vampires Ruin Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aintitnifty/pseuds/aintitnifty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has dinner with Marcone, and somehow a train gets lit on fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ulterior Motives

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, this was supposed to be a ficlet, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HAPPENED.
> 
> Time for Harry's POV! Which is oh so much fun.
> 
> This is a sequel to [A Well-Aimed Bullet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/721967), and will probably make more sense if you read that first.
> 
> Enjoy!

If you know anything about me, then you know I don’t like to back down from a challenge.

So when I received a mysterious dinner invitation from an equally mysterious messenger who claimed to work for the rather-less-mysterious Baron of Chicago, well… I accepted it.

Probably not the smartest thing I’d ever done, but hey, who’s judging?

The Gage is a nice bistro on the east side of the Loop, and I’ll admit, I dressed up a little. And by “dressed up,” I mean I wore one of my few button-down shirts instead of a t-shirt, and I chose black jeans instead of blue. See? I can be classy.

I still wore my duster, though, because fashion be damned, I felt naked without it.

The hostess flashed me a bright smile that surprisingly didn’t dim when I said I was there to meet Marcone, then she led me back through the crowd to a mostly empty glassed-in room. I caught a glimpse of Hendricks standing guard in the corner and there, seated in the back corner booth wearing a sleek-cut suit, was Marcone.

I couldn’t look at him quite yet. Four days ago I’d thought I’d never see him again, and it was strange for him to be sitting there like nothing had changed. So I thanked the hostess with a toothy smile, shucked my coat and slung it over a nearby chair, and waved obnoxiously at Hendricks, who just stared at me with beady eyes. There was a bruise on his forehead and he was holding himself a bit more stiffly than usual, but otherwise he looked no worse for the wear for taking a few bullets earlier that week.

Good ol’ Cujo.

And then there was nothing left for me to do but face Marcone, who was watching me with a little smile, his knuckles resting against his lips, a glass of red wine in front of him.

“Scumbag,” I greeted.

“Mr. Dresden.”

“Not dead, I see.”

“And people doubt your skills as a private investigator.”

I ignored that comment, instead choosing to slouch into the chair across from him and snatch up a menu.

“So what’s good here?” I asked, scanning the menu. “I’d kind of like to eat and leave, if you don’t mind.”

“You mean this isn’t how you would have chosen to spend your Friday night?”

I glared at him over the menu; his eyes gleamed in the low light, clearly teasing, and I wondered—not for the first time—how much he knew. Gard had sworn not to tell him about my little, er… episode in his office, but this dinner itself was evidence that he knew at least a little about what had happened while he’d been healing, right?

“Tell me, Mr. Dresden,” Marcone said. “If you’re so eager to leave, why did you accept the invitation in the first place?”

What a good question. In fact, it was the same question I’d been asking myself since the day I’d said yes.

“I needed to know what you’re up to,” I said.

“And if I told you I was up to nothing?”

“I’d give you my best ‘I-am-skeptical-of-you-because-you’re-a-criminal-mastermind’ look.” I demonstrated said look, cocking one eyebrow and pressing my lips together. Marcone just smiled.

“All right, so perhaps I have a small ulterior motive,” he said. “But it’s nothing sordid, I assure you.”

I didn’t drop the look. “Uh-huh.”

“Miss Gard will be gone for the next week to attend to other business, so I find myself at a loss for supernatural counselor. I was wondering if you would be willing to fill in while she’s gone. For a fee, of course.”

“Why?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. “What do you need to know?”

“Accords matters, mainly,” Marcone said, folding his hands in front of him. “I have reason to believe that a conflict may arise in my territory sometime soon, and I’d like to know for sure what I can do to nip it in the bud.”

That got my attention.

“Which member of the Accords is giving you trouble?” I asked, automatically sitting up a little straighter. If he was right and this problem—as couched as it was in hypotheticals— _did_ end up being an Accords matter, then I’d probably get roped into it by default as the White Council’s regional commander. It’d be nice to know what I’d be up against.

Marcone’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. If you were to agree to provide me with counsel, however…”

I scowled at him, but he remained aggravatingly unfazed. My patented Wizard’s Glower™ never had worked on him.

Okay, fine. What was the worst that could happen if I gave John Marcone some supernatural advice? Theoretically, any information I provided could also be gleaned from Gard, just at a later date, so it wasn’t so much a matter of content as it was a matter of timing. Too little information too late could easily make a mess in Chicago (one that I’d probably have to clean up), and could also end up with Marcone dead, or worse.

And we’d already seen how well I’d take that.

I heaved a sigh and slouched in my chair again, flipping my menu up between us.

“Fine,” I said, staring hard at the print. “But I get to choose whether or not to answer any question you ask, and I don’t want to be paid with blood money. Any fee I get comes from whatever legitimate bank account you own, got it?”

“That sounds fair.”

“And once Gard gets back, it’s done. No outlying favors either way. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

I glanced up and saw that he had extended a hand across the table, his expression expectant and slightly amused. I sighed again, just to show how put out I was, and grasped his hand tightly, shaking once.

“Shall we begin, then?” I asked.

“Why don’t we eat first?” Marcone said, glancing down at his own menu. “It’s been a long day. I could use a solid meal before we start talking supernatural politics.”

I grunted and started to actually read the menu. And then I read it again, this time boggling at the little numbers beside each entrée.

“Dinner is on me, by the way,” Marcone said, without even looking up. “Order whatever you want.”

“I don’t want to owe you anything,” I grumbled, even though my hindbrain was dancing and shouting “ _Hurray!_ ” at the prospect of expensive free food.

“You can consider it part of your fee, if you like.”

It didn’t take much convincing, considering I was practically salivating over every item on the menu. “Done.”

We perused our menus in silence for a moment, and I had just decided to get the 16 oz. ribeye with a heaping side of mashed potatoes when a tiny voice in the back of my head started putting everything together—fancy dinner, both of us dressed up (kind of), Marcone paying, no business talk—and then began to gibber: _Holy crap, is this a date?_

My mouth—never far behind—joined in: “Holy crap, is this a date?”

Marcone peered at me from across the table, one eyebrow raised. “Only if you want it to be. But I can assure you, that was not my intention. Are you ready to order?”

I felt my shoulders sag in relief, but a strange little part of me was almost disappointed with how easily he brushed off the insinuation that we were on a date, like it was ridiculous to even consider the possibility. I squashed that part.

“Yeah, I'm ready,” I said, and Marcone lifted a hand. A waitress materialized beside our table, pen at the ready.

Marcone ordered some duck dish that I had glanced over simply for unfamiliarity’s sake. I watched him as he spoke, his voice low and smooth, his expression politely friendly. By the time she turned to me the waitress was utterly charmed, and I knew that not a single inch of the flush covering her cheeks was for my benefit.

I flashed her a grin anyway, just to match Marcone for obnoxiousness, and handed her my menu with a flourish. “I’ll have the ribeye, medium-rare, with a side of mashed potatoes.”

“Excellent choice, sir,” she said, and flounced away with one last dimpled smile for Marcone.

“So,” I said into the silence following her departure.

“So.” Marcone sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I honestly thought I’d have more trouble convincing you to help.”

I grinned at him, waggling my eyebrows. “Full of surprises, that’s me. Let me guess. You thought you’d have to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse?”

That startled a laugh out of him, a surprisingly open sound that caught me off guard.

“Sorry,” I said, unable to hold back a smile. “I bet you get that joke all the time. I’ll do better.”

“Quite the contrary, actually,” Marcone said. “I haven’t heard that in years.”

“You’re joking,” I blurted, my eyes bugging. “It’s staple mafia humor!”

“True,” Marcone said, clearly amused. “But few men have the balls to joke with me at all, let alone openly mock me.”

“You’re telling me _no one_ makes Godfather jokes at you?”

“No,” he said. “Just you.”

Luckily that was when our waitress popped back over to refill Marcone’s wine glass and my ice water, so I didn’t have to come up with a response to the warmth in his voice.

_Just you._

I didn’t doubt that I was the only one to joke with him. I knew Marcone was a terrifying man—hell, there were times when _I_ was terrified of him—but my usual response to threats is to back-talk, so I’ve never been one to take his crap. I’d always been curious as to why he let me get away with destroying his property and showing him at most a grudging amount of respect, but maybe it was just because I was a novelty. I didn’t openly fear him, and sometimes even challenged him, so apparently that meant I got to stay alive as an amusing nuisance.

Yaaaay.

The waitress left after promising that our meals would be up soon, and silence descended again. Marcone sipped his wine, and I fiddled with my napkin, folding and re-folding it in my lap.

“So when do you want to start with this whole Accords thing?” I asked.

“When are you free?”

And then I must have lost my mind, because I shrugged and said, “I’m free after this.”

Marcone raised his eyebrows. “You want to start tonight?”

“Um…” My thoughts had derailed completely, because honestly, _what the hell, me_ , but apparently my mouth hadn’t received the panic-memo, so I said: “Sure, why not?”

Marcone eyed me, clearly waiting for the punch line, but then he just nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Tonight, then. Where?”

Oh, what the hell. I was already down the rabbit hole. “My place,” I said firmly, because like hell was I going to one of his places, and that way I’d have Mouse as backup. Just in case. “And you only get to bring the one goon,” I added, hooking a thumb at Hendricks.

Marcone’s lips quirked. “Deal.”

The waitress returned with a smile and two steaming plates. My mouth started watering in earnest as soon as the ribeye was placed before me, and I barely registered Marcone politely thanking the waitress before I started sawing into the meat.

A low chuckle made me look up, though, and I frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” Marcone said, tucking into what must have been duck. It smelled great, whatever it was. “I’m just surprised that I’d never before thought of bribing you with food. I hadn’t thought it would be so effective.”

“Har-har,” I said, hunching over my plate, and Marcone shook his head with a smile.

What followed was a strangely companionable silence, broken only by the clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversation from the other diners. It gave me time to shovel food into my face, which was nice because I hadn’t had a proper meal since the night before (dry cereal didn’t count), and also it gave me time to marvel at the fact that I’d been sitting across from John Marcone for about thirty minutes and not a single spell had been slung.

“You should know, perhaps, that this was not my idea,” Marcone said. I blinked up at him, a hunk of beef halfway to my mouth.

“Huh?”

Okay, so it wasn’t the most eloquent response, but it was a testament to how freaking amazing that steak was.

Marcone smirked a little, his fingers tapping idly at the stem of his wine glass.

“This dinner,” he said. “I didn’t plan it. Miss Gard took it upon herself to make the reservations. Apparently she thought that after what happened earlier this week, we should… talk.”

I could sense a boatload of insinuations in that last word that I stubbornly chose to ignore. (Just like I was ignoring the impending tempter tantrum directed at a certain loud-mouthed Valkyrie. See? _Growth._ )

“Wait,” I said. “Hendricks and Gard are actually allowed to do things without your say-so?”

“You’d be surprised,” Marcone said, hiding a smile behind his wine glass, and I realized that the strange note that had crept into his voice wasn’t so much strangeness as it was… fondness.

I looked away quickly, convinced that it would be better for us both if he didn’t know I had caught that smile. It was a rare breach in his suave Mafioso façade, an oddly vulnerable moment that I had only rarely seen from him before. Acknowledging it (and staring at it, which was another weird impulse I smothered as quickly as I could) would feel like too much of an intrusion.

“So.” I cleared my throat, recovering like a pro. Debonair dinner date, that’s me. “What did you hear about earlier this week?”

“Only that you were concerned,” Marcone said, and I was about to form a mental apology for Gard when Marcone suddenly sat forward a little, his green eyes glinting in the low light. “It’s true, then? You asked after my condition?”

I carefully set my utensils down, determined not to fidget.

“I was curious,” I said, staring hard at the condensation forming on my glass of ice water. “You should really pay someone at the Trib to write better headlines for you. That one was way vague.”

“Ah, yes. Because ‘Chicago kingpin shot and presumed dead’ can be taken in so many ways.”

I grinned at him, finally meeting his eye. “It can be if you have my imagination.”

Marcone hummed deep in his throat and sat back, toying with his wine glass again. His eyes never left mine. It was a battle not to look away from such intense scrutiny, but I met him gaze for gaze. Sometimes I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the fact that I could simply look the bastard in the eye, for all that I’d been able to for the better part of nine years.

Hells bells. I had known him for _nine years_. Sometimes I didn’t think I’d ever get used to that, either. Our relationship (or whatever it was you could call a few mutual life-savings interspersed with disdain, snark, and—admittedly—a smidgen of respect) was a third grader.

A strange, sometimes scary, confused little third grader.

“You were concerned,” he said again, his voice almost wondering.

“I was curious,” I repeated firmly.

He shook his head, his expression turning shrewd. “No. That doesn’t explain your need to burst into my office first thing in the morning in order to harass my head of security until she agreed to tell you whether or not I was alive. Mere curiosity wouldn’t take you that far.”

I glared at him, not quite pouting. “She said she wouldn’t tell you about that.”

Marcone flashed me a sharp grin. “My secretaries get chatty.”

I grunted, turning my gaze to my abandoned silverware. I picked up the fork and started shoving my mashed potatoes around. Childish, maybe, but I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to ask my next question.

“So,” I said, still staring at my potatoes. “How’re you feeling?”

“Sore,” Marcone said dryly. I finally looked up at him. He wasn’t smiling, but he was apparently willing to let me change the subject from my little outburst at the office, for which I was grateful.

“Yeah,” I said. ”Bullets’ll do that. How many?”

“Three. Hendricks took four.”

I winced. “Yikes. Where?”

“Chest, shoulder, and hip. Hendricks caught the rest on his vest.”

I frowned a little, glancing at the big bodyguard in the corner. He was apparently paying no attention to our conversation, his gaze fixed in the middle distance, but I didn’t believe that for a second.

“He saved you?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly.”

Something flickered in Hendricks’s expression at that declaration, and he met my eye for a split second before looking down to check his phone. Whatever that expression had been, it kind of made me want to hug him. Or at least thump him bracingly on the shoulder.

I went back to staring at my potatoes, oddly disquieted. I was used to Marcone and Hendricks being simply bodyguard and guarded, with Hendricks somewhere in the background whenever I was around, either carrying a large weapon or standing stolidly to one side. But the look on Hendricks’s face when Marcone had unflinchingly acknowledged that he’d saved his life hinted at a relationship deeper than simply boss and goon, and I wondered how long they had been working together.

Marcone was still staring at me, his eyes practically burning holes in my head.

“I thought you were dead,” I said after a moment, if only to break the silence. I glanced reluctantly up at him to catch him frowning.

“And that upset you?” he asked.

“What, you wouldn’t be upset if I died?” I snapped, infuriated at the flush creeping up my neck and ears.

“Of course I would be,” Marcone said, keeping his voice much quieter than mine. “But perhaps for slightly different reasons.”

“Just because I live in Chicago, right?” I hissed. “Because I’m one of ‘yours’? Not for any useless personal reasons.”

“I never said that.” Marcone’s voice turned hard. “I said the reasons would be slightly different; not entirely.” He leaned forward, his eyes flinty in the low light. “Believe me, Harry, I would be more than a little upset over your death.”

I stared at him over the table, over our abandoned meals, and I believed him. I could see it in his eyes, how furious he would be if I died. How he’d maintain control, but on the inside he would be seething because I had been killed on his watch, on his turf, against his will. How he’d put that tiger soul of his to hunting until my death was avenged.

… Okay, so maybe that was thinking too far into it, but damned if I didn’t believe that he’d mourn me.

Oddly enough, that made me feel better about my own reaction. I nodded slowly before picking up my fork again and shoveling some mashed potatoes into my mouth.

Marcone sat back, apparently content with that, and the rest of the meal passed without mishap. Conversation turned to less touchy subjects, like how we were getting back to my place that night and how badly the Cubs would fail in the upcoming season. Marcone actually had a few surprisingly knowledgeable opinions on that subject (baseball as a safe conversation topic with mobsters; who knew?), and by the time the check came, I was content enough to almost have forgotten about some of our more uncomfortable conversation topics.

Hendricks (who had ducked out at about the same time the check came) picked us up just outside the restaurant in a sleek black car, but we didn’t get more than a block before something in the engine pinged, clattered, and began to smoke. Hendricks scowled at the dashboard as we pulled over, his jaw clenched in irritation.

I lifted my hands, wide-eyed with innocence. “That wasn’t me, I swear.”

Marcone rolled his eyes and addressed Hendricks. “Check it.”

“Yes, sir,” Hendricks grouched, and slid out of the car, the shift in weight making the car bounce on its axles.

“So,” I said, jiggling my leg while we waited. “This must be embarrassing.”

Marcone glared at me and opened his door, sliding out. I grinned and followed.

Hendricks was glowering into the smoke pouring out from the open hood of the car, and when Marcone stepped up beside him he started explaining the problem in a low voice. I caught a few technical terms, a curse word or two, but honestly, the car troubles didn’t bother me. If anything, it was an amusing end to the night.

Or so I thought.

Eventually, Marcone heaved a sigh and pulled his phone out of his pocket, glancing at the screen briefly before sliding it back out of sight.

“How long will it take to get another car?” he asked.

“Could be twenty minutes,” Hendricks said.

“Uh…” I looked between the two of them, taking in Hendricks’s apologetic look and Marcone’s barely-veiled annoyance. “Look, why don’t we just take the L to my place? That’s how I got here.”

“Let me guess,” Marcone said. “That travesty you call a car died again?”

“Hey, this time it wasn’t me.” It was true; Thomas had been driving the Beetle when it finally puttered and died. I’d been in the back shooting at things. Slimy things.

It hadn’t been a good Saturday.

“The L? I don’t know, boss,” Hendricks said, looking pained, but Marcone was watching me, clearly intrigued.

“The L sounds fine,” he said. He glanced at Hendricks. “Unless, of course, Mr. Hendricks has any objections?”

I’d never before seen Hendricks look so aggrieved. He heaved a sigh and rubbed one massive hand over his shorn red hair.

“I don’t like it,” he admitted. “Not so soon after… you know. And I have to stay with the fu—with the car.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine for a twenty minute train ride,” Marcone said, and although his tone was joking, there was warmth there, too, and Hendricks’s expression tightened. “Plus I’ll have Harry with me,” Marcone added, smiling at me.

“Stop calling me that,” I said, but it was a reflexive response; there wasn’t much heat in it.

Hendricks opened his mouth to argue, but Marcone's pocket started buzzing and he held up a hand, fishing his phone out again.

“My apologies,” he said, glaring at the screen. “I have to take this. Please excuse me.”

He walked a few paces away, the phone pressed to his ear. He stayed close enough that we never lost sight of him, but far enough away that I couldn’t catch a word of his conversation.

I glanced over and realized I wasn’t the only one watching.

“You’ll look after him?” Hendricks asked gruffly, and I could see the worry in his eyes as he watched Marcone pace. It was a bit unnerving to see that much emotion coming from a guy I’d always just assumed was mindless muscle, and I was caught off guard by his bluntness. He wasn’t even trying to hide his concern about letting his boss out of his sight so soon after an assassination attempt, which, yeah, okay, I got that.

I think it was his honesty that prompted my own.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll watch him. You have my word.”

Hendricks’s broad shoulders sagged in relief and I was rewarded with a nod of approval, and then Marcone called to me from down the block and I hurried to catch up with him.

We walked to the platform in comfortable silence, Marcone making a note of something on his phone, and me considering the promise I’d given Hendricks. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t keep an eye on Marcone; that went without saying, at least in my head if not out loud. It was Hendricks’s obvious relief after I’d sworn to look after Marcone that really baffled me. I mean, I knew that I’d worked with him and his boss quite a few times over the years, and I try to be trustworthy whenever I can, but that amount of trust coming from a man like Hendricks, especially when it concerned Marcone’s safety? That was… well. That was something.

We climbed the stairs to the station, carded ourselves through, and stepped out onto the platform. The wind was particularly cutting that high up, and I flipped the collar of my duster up, bouncing slightly to ward off the chill.

“When was the last time you rode the train?” I asked.

“Hmmm.” Marcone stared up at the buildings around us, pondering. “Maybe a year ago? Perhaps longer?”

“Do you remember why?”

Marcone shrugged, smiling slightly. “Nostalgia, I assume. Certainly not because some upstart wizard broke my car.”

“I told you, that wasn’t me!”

Marcone just grinned. “Tell me. Are you even allowed to ride the L, what with your averse effect on technology?”

“I should be fine as long as we sit near the back,” I said, glaring. “And if that fails, then what the CTA doesn’t know can’t hurt them.”

Marcone chuckled and turned away to watch the train approach, and I allowed myself a moment to watch him. He looked relaxed, his hands in his coat pockets, the brisk wind rustling his hair. If I hadn’t known who he was—the most dangerous mortal in Chicago, if not the entire Midwest—I would never have guessed that he was more than just some attractive, well-dressed businessman, on his way home from dinner.

It was a startling thought.

“Harry.”

I blinked. Marcone was standing near the open doors of the train, wearing an expectant expression. I flushed and stormed past him, ignoring his sly smile. He stepped in right after me, and I thought I felt his hand brush against my elbow, gently guiding me toward the back of the car, but when I glanced down his hands were at his sides, curled into fists. In fact, he had frozen in place just inside the door, his sharp eyes narrowed, a furrow in his brow.

“Hey,” I said, startled out of my sulk. “What’s wrong?”

“There are no people on this train,” he said, his voice strangely hushed, and before I could properly register what he had said, the doors closed behind us and the train lurched away from the station. I flailed and stumbled a little before catching myself on a metal pole; Marcone barely flinched, the bastard.

“Look, why don’t you take a seat?” I said, trying to get him to unclench. “I’m sure it’s just a slow night.”

Marcone flashed me an exasperated look. “Mr. Dresden, it is a Friday night in downtown Chicago. This train should be packed.”

A chill crept down my spine as I finally let myself eye the abandoned train car. It looked normal—no strange stains, no flickering lights, only the usual amount of detritus and graffiti—but Marcone was right: a quick glance through the windows at each end of the train car revealed similarly empty compartments on either side of us.

“Okay,” I said slowly, my knuckles turning white where they gripped the metal pole. “So maybe the L is actually closed, and we’re trespassing?”

“Harry,” Marcone said, and his voice was chiding, almost fond. I tried not to think about that too much.

“Well, I’m at least going to sit while we think this through,” I said, plopping into a nearby seat. “You can balance in the middle like a weirdo.”

Marcone gave one last look at the empty train car in front of ours, then sighed and stepped over to the row of seats perpendicular to mine. I half-expected him to whip out a handkerchief and clean off the seat, but he settled onto the stained blue cushion without hesitation, designer suit and all. He caught me staring and cocked an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just didn’t peg you for much of a public transportation guy.”

“I actually enjoy traveling on the L. It reminds me of a simpler time.” Marcone’s voice dipped briefly into a rougher accent as he spoke, all south-side Italian. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or telling some weird version of the truth. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that John Marcone had grown up right here in Chicago. Maybe riding the L _was_ nostalgic for him.

Weird.

“So I assume we’re in agreement that something is very wrong here,” Marcone said, keeping his voice low.

“You assume correctly,” I mumbled. I couldn’t stop staring at the empty train car. It made me antsy. The L was _never_ empty. Even when it was too late for the usual pedestrian traffic, there would normally be a homeless person or two catching some shut-eye in the back of one of the train cars. The silence was eerie, to say the least. Something was definitely wrong.

“Does this strike you as your field of expertise, or mine?” Marcone asked. He was adjusting his cuffs, apparently nonchalant, but I knew better. I had no doubt that there were blades stashed up his sleeves, and that his impeccably well-tailored suit probably hid a sleek shoulder holster, complete with ridiculously expensive gun. I’d expect nothing less from Gentleman Johnny.

And he wasn’t the only one prepared.

“I’m not sure yet,” I said, shifting in my seat to get a good feel for where my blasting rod hung on its special loop inside my duster. “I don’t sense any magic right now, but that doesn’t rule out the possibility. You think this is a trap for us, or just a random—?”

And then we blew through the next stop, traveling so fast that the people standing on the platform were reduced to dark, shapeless blurs.

“Never mind,” I grumbled, ignoring Marcone’s arch look.

“A trap, then,” he said, as coolly as though we were still at dinner. “I’m starting to think someone in this town may be holding a grudge against me.”

“You don’t say.”

He ignored my sarcasm, instead letting his eyes roam around our ad hoc prison. “Either that or they’re here for you, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least, considering your propensity for making enemies. Or perhaps it’s the both of us.” His eyes met mine briefly. “What do you propose we do?”

“We stay put for now,” I said firmly, choosing not to rise to the bait. _Propensity for making enemies_ , my ass. Which one of us had been shot four days ago? “Wait for whoever planned this to reveal themselves. I’m not too keen on wandering around the train while it’s moving at full tilt.”

“Mmm.” Marcone eyed the map above the door, a diagram of the L’s Brown Line. “We should be passing Clark and Lake soon.”

“Where do you think they’ll take us?” I asked.

“I think it depends on who’s running this train,” Marcone said. At my questioning look, he added, “A non-human enemy would take us to a different place than a human one.”

“That’s assuming our captors are logical thinkers.”

“Of course.”

We blew through Clark/Lake as quickly as we had the last stop, and I could practically hear the wheels turning in Marcone’s head. He was still staring at the map above the door, and one of his hands was in his coat pocket. I wondered what weapon he had stashed there. Another knife? A gun, perhaps…?

“Brace yourself,” he said, and then the train lurched as we sped around the sharp turn leading out of the Loop. I automatically gripped his shoulder—the closest thing at hand—to avoid toppling into the aisle, and to my surprise, he grabbed my forearm, holding me steady.

“Sorry,” I grumbled, releasing him. He flashed me a quick smile that turned pained when the train began to slow. I glanced out the window.

“Oh hell,” I said.

“What is it?”

I turned to him, my teeth clenched. “We’re stopping over the river.”

Marcone’s eyes went wide with realization. “So your power…”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at the dark water again just as the train rolled to a stop. “It might be a little screwed.”

The lights went out.

I smelled the vampires before I saw them. The reasons for this were two-fold: One, it was pitch black on the train, so I couldn’t see a damn thing, and two, they were Black Court, so they reeked of death and decay and fresh blood.

Which meant they had been feeding.

I just about jumped out of my skin when I felt a hand on my knee. I almost shouted out a panicked spell before another hand clamped over my mouth, and I remembered Marcone.

“Wait,” he hissed into my ear, his voice barely audible, “and listen.”

The hand over my mouth disappeared (thank the stars, otherwise I would’ve had to lick it or something, which would have been both juvenile and possibly unsanitary), but he kept a firm grip on my knee, holding me down. It was strangely comforting to have that one point of contact as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and for once, I took his advice and Listened.

The vampires were moving stealthily through the car just ahead of ours. I could feel the sickly spread of dark magic preceding them, dousing all light that would have leaked in through the windows from the city around us. So at least one of them was a wizard, a middling practitioner, at best. But not Mavra.

I shouldn’t have felt such relief at that—believe me, a Black Court attack was nothing to be relieved about—but such is my life.

“What are they?” Marcone asked quietly.

“Vampires,” I said, reaching into my duster for my blasting rod; I had a feeling I’d be needing it soon. “Black Court.”

Marcone grunted, and I heard the gentle click of a chamber opening as he checked the rounds in his gun. “You wouldn’t by any chance have any holy water on you, would you?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I said. “But I do have this.”

I grasped the silver chain around my neck and tugged my mother’s pentacle out from beneath my shirt. With just a whisper of will, the pentacle began to glow with a dim blue light.

Marcone clapped a hand over mine, dousing the light.

“Hey—” I began, but Marcone interrupted me with a hiss: “ _Wait._ ”

I froze, listening hard. The train was silent. Nothing moved in the car before us, or behind us. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic. I frowned.

“Where—?”

I was interrupted for the second time by a low curse from Marcone, and the blinding flash-bang of a gunshot. Even through the ringing in my ears, I heard something shriek in the darkness and fall back against the plastic seats right across from us. My hair stood on end; it had been practically on top of us.

“Now,” Marcone said, and I lit my pentacle, letting it blaze brightly enough to light the entire train car. The light was met with dry-throated screeching as the Black Court vampires cringed away from us, hiding their faces from the glowing sign of my faith, as powerful a defense as any cross.

There were five of them. One—the closest—had once been a young woman. A ragged dress hung from its wasted body, one strap torn through, revealing dry, wrinkly skin and a single flaccid breast. Its neck was still torn from where its maker had fed however many weeks or months ago, but it was now missing most of its hair and Marcone’s bullet had taken the better half of its skull.

It was still twitching.

Marcone stood up and slammed his heel against the vampire’s head, smashing what remained of its skull into pulp. Then he reached out, jerked open the emergency door at the back of the train car, and kicked the vampire through the doorway and onto the tracks below.

“That’s one,” he said, slamming the door shut again, and turned to face the rest.

Okay, I admit it. Sometimes I loved having him around.

“ _Dresden_ ,” one of the vampires hissed, glaring at me from behind a seat, and my skin crawled. I’d always hated the Black Court, of course, but they only made it worse by trying to speak; dead vocal cords weren’t designed for speech.

“That’s what it says on my underwear,” I said, forcing myself to sound jovial and completely unworried. On the inside I was panicking. Black Court vampires were nothing to laugh at, especially when one wasn’t prepared. I had no stakes, no garlic, no holy water. The only thing between me and the vampires at the moment was my pentacle, but even that wouldn’t hold them forever.

Not to mention I could feel the tug of the river far below our feet, messing with my magic. It’s a tough sensation to describe, but I guess it’s a little like vertigo. You know the feeling, right? When you _know_ you’re standing still—that your feet are firmly planted and you’re not actually falling—but your brain is so convinced that you’re about to topple to your death that you still panic and go all Jimmy-Stewart crazy?

Well, the Chicago River gradually grounding my magic felt a little like that. I knew the magic was still there inside me—the river wasn’t close enough or strong enough to completely ground it—but it still felt strangely off-center, like I’d have to reach awkwardly around some imaginary corner to get a good enough grasp on it.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

“Stand down, wizard,” said the same vampire, apparently the leader, judging by its chattiness. And maybe because it was the only one still dressed in clothes that even faintly resembled clothes. “We are here for the Baron.”

I felt Marcone stiffen at my side, but his expression never wavered.

“What do you want with him?” I demanded, raising my blasting rod along with the pentacle. And if I happened to take a small step forward and in front of Marcone… well. No one mentioned it.

“We seek his death,” rasped the chatty vampire, turning its dull gaze slowly from me to Marcone. It was starting to rise from its defensive crouch, as were its companions, and I knew they would attack soon.

“Who sent you?” Marcone asked, his smooth voice a direct contrast to the vampire’s spine-tingling rasp.

In answer, the lead vampire’s lips spread in a grisly smile, and it flung a hand forward, sending out a cloud of darkness much like the one that had obscured our train car just minutes ago.

I hefted my left hand, shield bracelet and all, and barked, “ _Protego!_ ” A silver blue dome formed right in front of Marcone and me, and the dark cloud bubbled at its edges, but came no further.

“Does this shield go two ways?” Marcone asked, his narrowed eyes fixed on the dim figures of the vampires.

“Nope,” I said. “Go nuts.”

Marcone’s grin was a predatory flash of teeth, and he lifted his gun, a glinting silver Desert Eagle. “Watch your ears.”

Sure enough, the shots were deafening, seeing as we were basically standing in a tin can. But Marcone made them count. He blew away the top of the closest vampire’s head, then followed that up with two concentrated shots that destroyed the kneecaps of a vampire trying to climb over some seats. The leader screeched, and took a bullet between its eyes for its troubles.

“You can join the fun any day now, Mr. Dresden,” Marcone said wryly.

“Hey, you’re behind my shield, aren’t you?” I snapped. “My magic’s freaking out as it is, and the main thing I have at my disposal right now is fire, and I wouldn’t exactly trust flames in an enclosed metal space, would you?”

“I suppose not.”

“Call it a last resort,” I said grouchily as he kept blasting away. He fired two more shots, taking each of the remaining vampires in their faces, and then he had to pause to reload.

The vampires sensed an opening. The one with no kneecaps (and now no left cheekbone, which really wasn’t a pretty sight) started crawling like a legless nightmare across the floor, and the two others who’d been shot in the head began to twitch again as the leader got to its feet and thrust out its hands, sending more magic pouring down the aisle at me. I grimaced as I felt the pulsing darkness rattle my shield, and this time I couldn’t hold back all of it. The light of my pentacle went out, and we were submerged in darkness again.

“Damn it,” I hissed, trying to concentrate on a spell that would bring back some light, but my magic kept slipping away, following the course of the water below us. I felt something clutch at my leg, and before I could even think, I pointed my blasting rod at it and yelled, “ _Forzare_!” I was rewarded with a screech that broke off when whatever had grabbed me (I’m guessing it was Legless) smashed squishily against the far door.

I whispered power back into my pentacle, willing it to give us at least a little light, and it began to glow just as something else slithered against the seats, far too close. I felt Marcone stumble back with a curse as a Black Court vampire reached out a single, claw-like hand and raked it along his arm, clutching at the fabric with long, bloodstained nails. Its withered mouth gaped, revealing sharp, blackened teeth. Marcone landed a solid kick against its jaw, snapping its head back with a crunch of bone, but it held him still, its fingers gouging deep.

“Dresden,” Marcone said, his voice strained, and I automatically reached out, grabbing his coat and yanking him behind me. The vampire’s grip on him broke, leaving behind ragged tears in Marcone’s sleeve. 

“You okay?” I asked, partly shielding him with my body as he resumed reloading his gun.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out. “Incoming.”

“Shit,” I muttered, pointing my blasting road at the two bullet-ridden vampires scuttling down the center aisle. “I think it’s ‘last resort’ time.”

“Do it.”

I yelled, “ _Fuego!_ ” Flames burst from the end of the rod, terrifyingly fierce and far too close in the train car. The little sane part of me that would forever be afraid of fire cowered a little, and my left hand twinged in sympathy as the fire engulfed the remaining vampires. The smell of burning flesh filled the train car, but I couldn’t look away from the writhing bodies in the flames. I could feel Marcone pressed up against my back, using me (and my duster, admittedly, but still mostly me) as a shield against the heat.

The flames were growing, despite the fact that I had already lowered my blasting rod. They caught on the seat cushions, the advertisements and posters along the walls, the flailing vampires. Plastic began to bubble and melt, and I was starting to have trouble drawing breath as the fire sucked away whatever oxygen was left.

And then Legless—engulfed in flame as it was—started inching along the floor toward us.

“We have to jump,” I yelled over the crackling of the fire and the dry shrieks of the vampires.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jump.” I took two long strides over to the nearest door and yanked on the emergency cord. The doors slammed open with a whoosh of cool air. Something on the other side of the train car screeched in fury, and I cringed as three more gunshots echoed through the compartment, deafening in the close quarters.

I turned to find Marcone standing right behind me, his hands steady on his gun, sweat running down his face, protecting my back even though the flames were rapidly spreading, even though he had no idea what I was planning, whether I’d do something stupid or suicidal or both.

“Harry?” His voice, low and tense, brought me out of that train (ha) of thought, and I snapped to attention.

“Right,” I said, and before I could over-think it, I reached back, grabbed his arm, and tugged him close, curling my hand tightly around his. “Hang on.”

“Count of three?” he asked with a sharp grin, his eyes fixed on the rushing river far below us, his jaw clenched tight. My eyes were fixed on him, and I couldn’t help but marvel a little at this mortal man who apparently trusted me enough to jump fifty feet from a flaming train into a rushing, probably freezing cold river, without even the slightest hesitation.

“Yeah,” I said, and my voice came out as a bit of a croak.

He glanced at me. “One…”

My hand tightened around his. “Two…”

“Three.”

We leapt.

“ _Ventas servitas_ ,” I hissed, creating just enough wind to cushion our fall. It was more difficult than it should have been to control the spell, but it was enough, and the impact with the water didn’t hurt nearly as much as I’d been expecting it to.

It did hurt, though; don’t get me wrong. Fifty feet is a long drop, and—as I had expected—the water was cold enough to knock the breath from my lungs. We landed with a great splash and I struggled not to gasp as I sank beneath the surface. The water tugged at my coat and jeans, and my boots dragged me down, and then a current hit my right side, wrenching me around underwater, and I felt Marcone’s hand slip away.

My heart stopped. Frantic, I forced my way up through the surging water, kicking as hard as I could in my heavy, waterlogged boots, until I finally broke the surface. I gasped for air, struggling to stay above water, and looked around. It was pitch black down there, barely lit by the glow of the flames up above. I forced one numb hand to grab my pentacle and lift it above the water, casting a ghostly blue light over my small patch of river.

“MARCONE!” I yelled. I heard an inhuman scream from somewhere above me; an eerie, unwelcome reply. I forced myself to ignore it, praying to whatever deity was listening that the vampires wouldn’t try their luck in the river, and hollered again: “ _JOHN!_ ”

My teeth were starting to chatter, and I’ll admit that I was starting to panic. What if I didn’t find him? What if the Black Court did? Freezing water dripped from my hair into my eyes and my pentacle kept dipping below the water as I struggled to stay above the current, sinking me in and out of blackness.

Then a strong arm locked around my chest, and breath warmed my neck as a low, gruff voice told me to “Hold on,” and I found myself being dragged from the water— _again_ —by Gentleman John Marcone.

I kicked to help him along, which I suppose was an improvement from the last time he had pulled me from a cold, watery death, and it wasn’t long before we reached the edge of the river. He had somehow managed to find a dock, and we both clambered out of the water and onto the cold metal, where we collapsed for a minute, panting. I may have ended up half on top of him, but I was too exhausted to move and he didn’t seem to mind.

“Thanks,” I gasped, unclenching my right hand to let my pentacle—long since doused so the vampires would lose us in the dark water—drop onto my chest.

“Anytime,” Marcone replied, clasping my shoulder. His hand tightened once, briefly, before letting go.

I slowly turned my head to look at him. His sodden coat was open and unbuttoned, his tie loose around his neck, and his collar had come undone, revealing a span of slick wet skin at the hollow of his throat.

Oh, and he was bleeding.

I jolted upright, whirling dizzily to face him.

“You’re bleeding!” I sputtered.

Harry Dresden: Master of the Obvious.

The declaration came out half accusation, mostly panic, and I began pawing at him with numb hands, trying to move the heavy folds of his jacket so I could get a better look at the dark bloodstain on his chest. Marcone just blinked at me, which was telling of how weary he must have been.

“Am I?” He looked down at himself and absently touched the blood on his shirt. “Ah. Torn stitches, I imagine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Stitches,” I repeated, and then I fell back, letting out a bubbling, hysterical laugh. “Right. You got shot a few days ago. Naturally, you tore your stitches. Hells bells.” I raked a hand through my wet hair, and when I spoke again, my voice was still a little shaky. “So the vampires… they didn’t—?”

His hand was surprisingly warm as it wrapped around my wrist; I was still clutching his lapel.

“I’m fine, Harry,” he said, his voice firm and strangely emphatic. “You grabbed me first.”

The amount of relief that welled up in me at that statement was actually a bit terrifying, and I lowered my head so he wouldn’t see it in my eyes.

Since when had I cared so much about what happened to John fucking Marcone? The last I remembered, I could barely tolerate the man. And now I freaked out about his apparent death and saved him from vampires and panicked at the sight of his blood? What the hell?

That would take some serious thought, once the world stopped spinning and I could feel my extremities again.

“So now what?” I asked, carefully extricating myself from his grip.

“Now we wait.”

I snorted. “Yeah? For what?”

“Our ride,” Marcone said, looking up the stairway.

I followed his gaze and saw two tall figures at the top of the stairs, one slender, the other built like a brick wall. The slender one pointed, and the brick wall started to make his careful way down the steps.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” I grumbled, flopping back onto the pier. “What are they, psychic?”

“I managed to get a text off before my phone died,” Marcone said, getting gingerly to his feet. He was favoring his left arm, and I could only assume that his jacket hid yet another gunshot wound. That wasn’t a pleasant thought; I shoved it away. “I figured we might need a ride.”

“Good figuring.”

“You all right?” Hendricks asked gruffly (I wondered hazily if he did everything gruffly, or if it was only around me), technically talking to both of us, but his eyes were firm on his boss.

“We’ll live,” Marcone said with a reassuring smile. Hendricks grunted, then dropped a red- and black-checked flannel blanket onto my chest before handing another—this one blue and orange—to Marcone.

“Get as many layers off as you can before you put those on,” he ordered, and I allowed myself a moment of hysterical amusement at the notion of him barking orders to Marcone and I before I lost control of my mouth again.

“Oh, but Mister Hendricks, sir,” I said, batting my eyelashes and feigning a southern-belle accent, “y’all ain’t even asked my father’s permission to court me yet.”

I expected to at least get a glare for that, but Hendricks just rolled his eyes and turned away from me, placing a gentle hand on Marcone’s back as they started climbing the steps.

“Come along, Harry,” Marcone called over his shoulder.

I sighed and rose gracelessly to my feet (hey, you try standing when your entire body is shivering), slinging the blanket over my shoulder. There weren’t too many steps, really, but I was exhausted by the time I reached the top. Marcone was already in the back of a plain black sedan, with Hendricks just climbing into the driver’s seat. Gard waited for me near the back door of the car, her lips curved into an all-too-knowing smile.

“Don’t even say it,” I muttered, slipping out of my sodden duster and tossing it to her. “And don’t lose that.”

“I would never,” she said, and then she opened the back door for me, closing it after I slid inside.

The interior was clean and leather and wondrously warm. Marcone sat beside me in the back, already wrapped up in his own flannel blanket, and he looked pointedly at the blanket I was holding.

“Fine,” I snapped, and wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, huddling into it as the car pulled away. Marcone looked a little too pleased at my obedience, but I let it slide and instead turned my attention to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Valkyrie up in front.

“I assume you two want a rundown of what happened?” I asked grouchily.

“And we will get one,” Gard said. “After you have rested.”

“Oh.” I blinked. I hadn’t been expecting that.

“Relax, Mister Dresden,” Gard said, leaning over so she could meet my eyes in the rearview mirror. “We will take care of everything. You are safe.”

Slowly, I relaxed into the seat, sinking into my flannel blanket, glad for the warmth and comfort.

“Our Accords discussion can wait, as well,” Marcone said, keeping his voice low. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

I snorted. “Yeah. Because Accords politics are so exciting.”

A small smile. “Even so.” He paused then, looking down at his hands. “Thank you,” he said softly, after a few seconds of silence. “I’m not sure how I would have gotten out of that if you hadn’t been there, so… thank you.”

I shifted, feeling truly awkward for the first time that night. “Don't be ridiculous,” I said. "You're John fucking Marcone. You would've been fine."

Marcone glanced at me, still smiling. “If you say so.”

We both went quiet after that, either too exhausted to speak, or with nothing more to say. Given everything that had happened in the last few hours, I was tempted to argue the former, and I soon found myself lulled into a pleasant doze by the gentle hum of the car and the fuzzy heat of the flannel.

I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep until I found myself blinking awake as the car jolted over a large bump. I breathed in deeply, still only half-conscious, and found myself inhaling the scent of leather seats and river water (ew) and clean flannel and beneath it all, warm and subtle and strangely comforting, Marcone’s undoubtedly expensive cologne. I turned absently into the scent, burying my face in fluffy flannel and a firm chest, and then I froze.

At some point during my nap, I had slumped sideways to rest my head against Marcone’s shoulder. I hazarded a quick glance up at him, but he was turned away, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they stared out the window. The golden glow of streetlights passed over his face, highlighting his aristocratic profile, and I silently cursed him for looking so good.

He hadn’t noticed that I was awake, though. Otherwise he probably would have moved the warm hand resting on my knee, or at least stopped his thumb from rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of my jeans.

I wondered for a moment if I should pull away, but the larger part of me was far too comfortable to move and far too tired to care about anything as trivial as my dignity, so I took advantage of his distraction and settled once more with my head on his shoulder, letting my eyes slide shut.

The next thing I knew, I was being shaken gently awake, and a low voice was rumbling against my ear.

“Mr. Dresden,” Marcone said. His hand hadn’t moved from my leg, and he gave my knee a little squeeze. “We’re here.”

I sat up, unable to hold back a gaping yawn, and stretched as much as I could without elbowing Marcone in the face. I eyed him from behind my hands as I rubbed the heels of my palms against my eyes, and was gratified to catch him looking a bit perplexed. He’d probably expected me to freak out about falling asleep on him. I allowed myself a moment of deep-seated satisfaction that I could still put that startled expression on John Marcone’s face, and then I lowered my hands and flashed him a sleepy smile.

“Thanks for letting me use you as a pillow,” I said.

“Of course,” he replied, which must have been an automatic response because he was still staring at me like he suddenly had no idea what to do with me.

Befuddlement was a good look on him.

I patted his leg in an amiable fashion, then opened the door and climbed out of the car, taking another moment to stretch. I regretted it immediately, because the movement made my flannel blanket slide from around my shoulders, and the chilly night air crept back in, reminding me that I was soaked to the bone and more than a little freezing.

Steady hands reached around me to resettle the blanket, and I turned to find Marcone standing there, his lips quirked into a half-smile, apparently back to his old self. He held out my duster wordlessly, and I took it from him, folding it over my arm.

“So,” I said, eloquent as always. I jerked a thumb back at my apartment, which we were, indeed, parked right in front of. “I’m gonna head in. Thanks for the ride. And dinner. And the whole river thing. Sorry about the vampires.”

“Not your fault, of course,” Marcone said, a wicked twinkle in his eye. It was completely unfair that he could look so regal with mussed wet hair and a flannel blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a kingly robe, but somehow he managed it. I opened my mouth to make some snarky comment about that, but before I could speak Marcone captured my right hand and bowed low over it. I felt the light, warm pressure of his lips against my knuckles, and my mouth snapped shut.

It wasn’t an accidental brush, nor was it a mocking, lip-smacking kiss. This was a genuine, dare I say, _gentlemanly_ gesture, and it left me downright speechless.

He rose, his eyes glinting, and smiled at me.

“Mr. Dresden, it was a pleasure,” he said, his suave air marred only a little by the fact that he was still shivering beneath his flannel robe.

I could have chosen from any number of snarky rejoinders to reply to _that_ , but when I took a moment to actually think about it (no, it was not a moment I was using to recover from the shock of him kissing my hand, that wasn’t—oh, shut up), I had to admit that… Yeah. Black Court attack aside, the night _had_ been kind of a pleasure.

“Likewise,” I finally said, and his smile broadened into something undeniably genuine.

“Stay warm tonight,” he said, turning away. “I’d hate for you to catch a chill.”

“I think that’s the least of my worries right now,” I said, but I tugged my own flannel blanket close around my shoulders, fighting back a shudder.

Marcone chuckled. “Good night, Mr. Dresden.”

I didn’t head immediately into my apartment, as chilly as I was. Instead I watched as Marcone approached his car, his pace calm and sure, like he hadn’t almost died less than an hour before. Hendricks stood by the rear door, holding it open for his boss. I toodled my fingers at the big bodyguard and got a raised eyebrow in reply; I’d call that a victory. At least it wasn’t a glare.

“So what now?” I called out just as Marcone was about to slide into the backseat, because apparently I am completely incapable of keeping my mouth shut. “Am I supposed to sit at home swooning and clutching my pearls while I wait for your call?”

“Whatever makes you happy, Harry,” Marcone replied. “Just remember that I’m not the only one who can make a call.”

I scowled. “You’re such a bastard. Make sure you stay alive so I can punch you in the face the next time I see you!”

Marcone just waved and disappeared inside the car, and Hendricks favored me with one last nod—which I returned with an ironic salute, still rather surprised at the sudden comradery—before following suit. I waited until the brake lights disappeared around the corner before heading into my apartment. Mister rammed against my shins in greeting and I stooped to give his ears a scratch, but I closed the door firmly and set my wards before he could slip out, earning an irritated meow.

“I don’t want you outside tonight, buddy,” I said. “Too many vampires.” He sniffed and trotted away, clearly miffed. I sighed and leaned against the door, grumbling, “That’s love for you.”

Mouse came up to me next, tongue lolling and tail wagging, and I slid down to sit at the base of the door, the better to greet him.

“Hey, fur-face.” He shoved his head against my chest and I ruffled the thick fur around his neck. He was wonderfully warm against my cold skin, so I buried my nose in his ruff and wrapped my arms around his big shoulders and leaned into him, trying not to think about vampires and mob bosses and warm kisses on my hand.

“I am so screwed,” I muttered.

Mouse huffed in whole-hearted agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> The next part should be up relatively soon, but I wouldn't always expect weekly updates. I'm actually kind of stunned myself with how quickly this came together.
> 
> I'm planning on five parts to this series altogether, so stay tuned!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
